


A Step Too Far

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Complete, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jeremy and Michael isn't written as explicitly romantic in this one, M/M, Michael in the bathroom AU, Panic Attacks, Swearing, There's no graphic sex (or even non-graphic sex) in this but it does deal with the aftermath of rape, but you can read them as platonically or unplatonically as you choose, mentions of anatomical parts, nobody dies but other than that expect it to be an unpleasant fic where unpleasant things happen, rated M for that reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-03 13:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14569893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: The party, only things go worse for Jeremy, and then they go better, and then they go worse again.(Please pay attention to the tags & warnings for this one.)





	1. Chapter 1

Michael waits over an hour in the bathroom for Jeremy. Everybody has to pee sometime, right? Especially, like, cool party animals who’ve gotta be drunk off their asses by this point. Alcohol rushes through the body. It has to come out somehow, and every single way for that to happen will lead a guy right to where Michael is lying in wait. That means confrontation is coming. That means it's inevitable.

So where is Jeremy? 

Water drips from the bathtub faucet, a cold, consistent patter against Micheal’s ankle. This is classified as a torture in some cultures. 

Still no Jeremy. 

The cans and bottles which form Michael’s make-shift costume dig into his skin. There’ll totally be indentations there, and for what? For somebody who faked friendship for twelve years, and then abandoned Michael like he was nothing? 

_Please let him be fucked,_ something within Michael screams. _Let it be the thing is his brain. Make it be a fucking monster._ If it’s monstrous and evil, Michael can get it out. If it's just Jeremy being an fuckwit, then no big deal, but Michael’s entire life up until this point has been one big fat lie. 

The door opens. It closes. It opens. It closes. There's in and there's out. Michael counts thirteen people. None of them are Jeremy. Jeremy is having fun, ‘cause he's forgotten Michael. 

Seventeen people.

_Drip, drip, drip._

When Jeremy was in second grade, Michael used to drag him into closets to help him tie his shoes, ‘cause he was the last in their class to learn, and he didn't want anybody to know. Michael should’ve let second grade Jeremy and his dumb untied shoes fall down the stairs. 

Twenty-three people. 

_Drip, drip, drip._

_Hisssssssssss_

(ew)

The longest sleepover Michael and Jeremy ever had was a week and a half. Sometimes when Jeremy comes over, he doesn't leave. That’s a fact of life. Jeremy is probably doing something stupid now. Even if Michael gets him through this whole Squip business, he's gonna have some serious groveling to do before Michael lets him back in. 

Twenty-four people, most of them fucking rank.

Michael’s going to write a letter to the management about the goddamned faucet. 

_Dear Jake Dillinger,_

_You might not be aware of this, but your bathtub sucks. You are wasting water. You should care about that and fix it._

_sincerely,_

_The kid who you once threatened to punch in the nose for breathing too close to girls._

_PS - Please choke to death on the engorged, plague-infested dick of an unwashed sewer rat._

(the faucet keeps dripping.)

There was this one time, during sophomore year, when Jeremy got an abscessed tooth, and his mom kept forgetting to take him to dentist appointments, so Michael gave him the drugs left over from when he got his wisdom teeth out. He'd been saving those! Jeremy hadn't deserved them. Michael will be stuck with plain old weed when the night is over and he needs to come down from this hell. 

Twenty-five people.

(Michael is dying a little inside.)

Twenty-six people, and one drunk girl with a kitten, crying. Where did she get a kitten, and why is she crying? Michael hates her, but he hates Jeremy more. Never mind the way that Jeremy would never stand up for himself, but would always stand up for Michael. Never mind Jeremy helping Michael to clean up his locker after Rich filled it with shaving cream. 

The Magic card that Jeremy gave Michael for his tenth birthday that everybody else forgot? Fuck it. 

Jeremy, stoned and spilling over with affection, telling Michael how much he likes him, so many times that Michael can hardly count? That guy is cancelled. He's gone. 

(That shifts when he finally arrives. Oh god, it does…)

Jeremy is number thirty-one. He bursts in in his underwear, and Michael doesn't register it as a problem fast enough, because everything Jeremy does these days is weird, and there's a million reasons for him not to be dressed. Maybe putting on clothes is what the cool kids are failing to do these days. Why should Michael care? Jeremy looks gross… just blotchy, and out of breath, and gross. 

Michael sits up, groaning like a ravening zombie. Jeremy screams. Good. This is the moment of truth. 

“‘Sup?” Michael holds the sides of the bathtub to push the himself and his heavy costume out of it. 

Nothing. Jeremy heaves out a breath, and then another. Was he just running a marathon? Is Michael invisible? Is he freaking out because Christine smiled at him and he can't handle that like a person? Who knows! 

“Squip got your tongue?” Michael asks. 

Jeremy shakes his head.

“Ha! You’re answering. So you finally decided to acknowledge me? I mean, it's the least you could do.” Michael pushes each word out furiously, because if he doesn't he’ll cry. 

Another shake of the head. Jeremy’s gaze is unfocused, so Michael waves his hand in front of Jeremy’s face. He snaps his fingers in front of his eyes. Jeremy closes them tight, breathing still heavy. It reminds Michael of the ungrateful parakeet he’d had as a kid, who would shut his eyes whenever Michael approached. That parakeet had hated everything and everybody. Spiteful Parakeet logic dictated that if you couldn't see the bad thing, then the bad thing couldn't see you. 

“Yeah, well fuck you too man.” Michael backs off. He shrugs off his costume, and takes a seat on the closed toilet. “I had this whole pissed off monologue planned out, an epic journey through twelve years of friendship. You know what? Why not. Hope the floppy disc in your head is up for relaying some key information about…”

“Michael?” 

The words dry up. Michael shifts uncomfortably on his porcelain thrown. “In the flesh.” Dumb words. They’re so dumb. Jeremy is only wearing one shoe, and it's untied. Are his boxers on backwards? Is that the new trend? That can't possibly be the new trend. 

“Jeremy?” Michael asks. “Are you… like… testing. Testing, one, two, three. Is this broadcasting? Are you hearing me?” 

Jeremy slides down against the door. He's blinking, and breathing, and blinking, and breathing. He looks like his head should be twisting around in circles, and smoke coming out of his ears. He looks like he's on the fritz. All at once Michael can really see him, and he doesn't look right. 

“Jeremy.” Michael crouches down in the floor next to him. “Seriously. Jer. Jeremy. I’m sitting right here in front of your face. You gotta talk to me, man. Is it telling you not to? You don't have to listen to it, you know. I'm here to help.”

Michael reaches out for Jeremy, who still hasn't answered him. 

When Jeremy was little, Michael used to tie his shoe for him. 

The shoe Jeremy’s wearing isn't even on the right foot. Michael takes the laces in his hand, fixes them, and pulls them tight. He doesn't know what he's doing. 

A loud knock on the door makes both Michael and Jeremy jump and cover their ears, only Jeremy is usually okay with loud noises. Michael’s the one who can't abide pounding. 

“There are people who have to pee, you know!” a voice calls through the door. 

“I’m having my period!” Michael calls back in falsetto. Jeremy stops hyperventilating long enough to look at Michael, then goes right back to hyperventilating. 

“Take your time honey,” the voice on the other side calls. 

“Ok,” Michael tells Jeremy. “We've got time. I've been doing some research, and…”

Jeremy hasn't taken his hands off his ears. Michael swallows thickly. He covers Jeremy’s hands with his own, lowering them gently. 

“Alright, Jeremy,” he tries, quieter than before. “Come on Jeremy, deep breaths.” His voice almost cracks from the effort to be gentle. It isn't fair. Jeremy should be apologizing to him right now. He should be acknowledging how awful he's been. He should be letting Michael fix him, and then getting his act together. 

Jeremy breathes, longer and heavier than before. 

“That's it,” Michael encourages, despite everything. He shifts into a sitting position. “Can you keep it up for me? You’re doing really well. It's okay. I promise, you’ll be okay.” 

Jeremy nods. His eyes are clouded over. He breathes like he's putting every ounce of his energy into it. 

“Michael?” he says again, low and hoarse. 

“Congrats on seeing through my clever disguise.” 

Jeremy rubs his eyes. He scrutinizes Michael, as if he's looking for his costume. 

“What's up?” Michael asks. 

Jeremy responds by carving out Michael’s heart with a rusty butter knife, dousing it in acid, setting it on fire, stomping on it, and banishing it to the ninth level of hell. 

Only not literally. 

Actually, what Jeremy does is look Michael in the eye, and start talking about eternal love and the sublime power of forgiveness. 

He doesn't really do that either. 

“It's just really great to see you, man,” says Jeremy, in a voice that might break any second. 

“Fuck you, come here,” says Michael, and Jeremy does. He leans in just enough for Michael to wrap him in his arms. And god, he's shivering. His teeth are chattering, but he puts his arms around Michael too. From this new position, Michael can see that Jeremy’s back is covered in weird scars, which snake like lightning bolts up his spine. It's like Harry Potter on steroids. “What are these?” Michael whispers, tracing them with his fingers.

Jeremy doesn't answer. 

They're silent for a moment, and then: 

**I wanna daaaaance with somebody!!!**

Jeremy makes a weird choking sound, a laugh trying to replace what was meant to be a sob. 

“At least somebody’s having a good night,” Michael remarks. 

Jeremy’s next breath comes a little easier. 

“You okay there?” Michael asks. “Is your Squip, like, malfunctioning, or…” 

“It's…off.” 

“That’d explain why you’re talking to me.” 

“It's the alcohol,” Jeremy says. “It messes it up.” 

“Good. Have another beer.” Michael reaches into the bathtub, and grabs Jeremy a can. Good thing he brought supplies. Jeremy turns it around dubiously in his hands, before opening it and taking a messy gulp. He's still shivering. His hands are shaking. 

“So,” says Michael. Short of yelling at Jeremy he doesn't know where to start, and the drive to yell at him is as dead as an unloaded gun. Michael leans against the tiles of the bathroom wall, picking at the grout between them. Jeremy looks away. Michael looks away. 

_Bang, bang, bang._

Jeremy drops his beer. He really is on edge. The banging goes on for several minutes. People are shouting outside. Then it stops. Slowly, Jeremy removes his hands from his ears. 

“How’ve you… uh… how’ve you been?” Jeremy asks. 

“Shitty.” 

“That sucks.” 

Michael gives a bitter laugh. 

“I… um… I…I guess I just got laid.” 

“Good for you.” 

“Right,” Jeremy says. “I… I… I… I just… right.”

“Christine?” Michael asks. 

Jeremy shakes his head, and it doesn't seem like him to want to hook up with anybody else, but he hasn't seemed like himself in a long time. 

“It was… um…um… it was Chloe, actually,” Jeremy says, with a small laugh. 

Michael thinks back to Jeremy’s appearance when he first rushed in. “Chloe,” he says. “Never thought I'd hear that one. What'd she have? Teeth in her vagina?” 

Jeremy covers his face. 

Michael _really_ thinks back to Jeremy’s appearance when he first rushed in. 

_Shit._

_shitdhitshitshitshit_

“She's dead,” Michael says. 

“I.. I… I mean, she couldn't have known. The Squip knew what to do and it… it… it knew I wouldn't do it myself…Or I'd suck at it and she'd… she'd tell everybody, and….” 

“That's not cool,” says Michael. 

“I know. I'm… I'm terrible. I know. I do everything wrong, I…” 

“Jer, no.” Michael leans in to get a closer look at him, and for the first time that night he's looking at his friend who he’s known forever. He's looking at Jeremy, who’s too skinny for his own good, and stutters when he's nervous. “Look,” Michael says. “Let’s get out of here, okay? We’ll get you out of here, and figure it out.” 

Barely, almost imperceptibly, Jeremy nods.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy has to grip onto Jake’s towel rack to pull himself up, Michael’s hand hovering over him but not touching. Jeremy gets lost somewhere staring at the towels. His boxers are on backwards. His boxers are backwards, and he's missing a shoe. His boxers are on backwards, he's missing a shoe, and he's got weird scars all over his back. His boxers are on backwards, he's missing a shoe, he's got weird scars all over his back, and his face is blotchy. His boxers are on backwards, he's missing a shoe, he's got weird scars all over his back, his face is blotchy, and he's shaking. How could Michael have seen how bad Jeremy was shaking, and not not know something had happened? 

Michael swallows several times in quick succession. There's hope. There are steps to follow. First get Jeremy out of the party, then get him to drink Mountain Dew Red, then hit him over the head with a sledge hammer so he'll forget what went down tonight. Hit him lovingly with that sledge hammer, do it out of kindness, but _erase_. Erase, erase, erase. Find something, like video games or music or literally _anything_ that’ll make Chloe Valentine unhappen. 

**Knock, knock, knock.**

 

Michael glances at the window. There’ll be a crowd in the hall if he opens the door, but they’re on the second floor, and now probably isn't the time to put Jeremy’s wall climbing skills to the test. 

Jeremy’s boxers are on backwards, he's missing a shoe, and there are scars up and down his back. He's zoned out on towels, not really there.

His skin is blotchy. 

He's shaking so much. And shit, Michael is too. 

_Bang, bang, bang._

“I'm menstruating everywhere!” Michael calls through the door. “It's like a slasher film! Blood!” 

Another knock, and Michael jerks into himself. He rakes his hand through his hair, making a mess of it. Michael has never once been stressed in his life without managing to make himself look like a total wreck. 

“Every time you startle me I gush rivers of blood!” Michael informs the knockers. “I'm going to lose my entire fucking uterus if you don't back off!” 

Grumbling on the other side of the door… disgusted grumbling, if Michael’s hearing things right.   
Well, Michael doesn't care about people, and by the time this is over, Jeremy won't either. It's not like being part of the popular crowd is working out well for him. It obviously isn't. It's got him fucking destroyed. They just have to get out and get through this by any means possible. 

Michael pulls off his shirt, and holds it out for Jeremy. 

“Put it on,” Michael tells him. 

Jeremy turns away from the towels, but that's all he does. Okay, so he's really out of it, and there are probably laws against manhandling him just now, but Michael can't throw him out to the wolves like this, cold and half naked. 

“Put it on,” Michael repeats, not forcefully, but slower. When he still doesn't get an answer, he starts to coax, taking a step forward. “Jer? Come on. Put on the shirt.” 

“I can't wear it,” Jeremy says. 

Michael raises his eyebrows at him. 

“It's a loser shirt.” 

Michael looks down at the shirt in his hands. A loser shirt? As in a shirt for losers? He shakes his head. Wow. A loser shirt. That's a lot to unpack. That's only the billionth sign this evening that everything that could possibly go wrong with Jeremy has. But forget the shirt. Forget it. Michael rolls his shoulders like he's limbering up for a fight, takes Jeremy by the wrist, and opens the door. A girl shoves past them on her way into the bathroom, and Jeremy fixes her with the most patently brain-scrambled stare that Michael can imagine.

“This way, Jer.” 

“About fucking time,” somebody hisses. So people are mad at Jeremy and Michael. No big. They can be mad. What a great party. Awesome night. Three cheers for Jake’s party planning skills. Maybe the house will burn down. That'd be nice. 

A pair of girls nudge each other as Michael and Jeremy go down the stairs — just another part of the ambiance. Jenna Rolan “discreetly” points her phone camera at them, and Michael doesn't let himself react at all, ‘cause he's hoping Jeremy won't notice. Michael catches enough of the whispers around him to know that some people think he and Jeremy have just been hooking up. Whatever. It won't matter one bit tomorrow. 

“YOU GOT ANY MOUNTAIN DEW RED?”

They've made it to the door, when Rich Goranski leaps out at them, like a monster in a haunted house. He looks… bad. Demonic possession bad. Micheal shoves him out of the way, and yanks Jeremy forward so hard that he has to catch him to keep him from tumbling down the one step between the porch and the driveway. 

“IT’S LIKE REGULAR MOUNTAIN DEW, BUT RED!” Rich calls after them, getting swallowed up by the crowd. Michael knows all about Mountain Dew Red. It's hard to find, and once Michael gets his hands on it, Rich isn't getting a single drop unless he finds some way to earn it. 

It's cooler outside, but not teeth-chatteringly cold. That doesn't stop Jeremy’s teeth from chattering. The gravel of Jake's driveway crunches under Michael's shoes. They get to the car, and Michael opens the passenger side door for Jeremy, pushing him in. He goes to the trunk, and pulls out the blanket that his dad told him to keep back there, along with a flashlight, in case of disasters, in case of being stuck. He gives it to Jeremy, and cranks up the heat as far as it will go. 

“Do you want to go to the hospital? Or… like… the police station?” Michael asks, hands going white against the steering wheel. His mind is going a mile a minute. Jeremy should have options, but Michael doesn't see how he can make sure Jeremy’s Squip stays off in either of those places. What if it's already about to come back on? 

Jeremy shakes his head, and Michael knows he shouldn't be relieved, but deep down he also knows that he's the only person who can deal with what's going on. 

(At least, in his head he knows he's the only one who can deal. In his heart, his sweaty palms, and the pit of his stomach, he just wants out.)

“That's good,” Michael says. “Right now, what we really need to do is get some more booze in you. We can steal from my dad's liquor cabinet. Just hang in there.” He gives Jeremy a thumbs up. He feels like he's choking. He turns on the car and puts his focus on the road. 

————

They get to Michael’s house. Easy. No problems. According to plan, even. Michael swipes a bottle of vodka, while Jeremy stands in the kitchen and watches him. 

“Shot. Now,” Michael orders. Jeremy gags on it, but manages to get it down. 

“Do you wanna take a shower?” Michael asks. “Are you still dead set on not borrowing my loser clothes?” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay shower, or okay loser clothes?” 

Jeremy runs his hand up through his hair. “Can I lie down for a while?” he asks. 

“So no shower, and no loser clothes?” 

“Yeah. I mean… no? Yeah. Can I lie down?” 

“Of course, man.” 

They go down to the basement, Michael gripping the vodka bottle by its neck. Jeremy lies down on Michael’s bed. He shudders when Michael tucks him in, but then settles down. Michael sits next to him on his computer. He researches how often he should give Jeremy vodka to keep him buzzed without accidentally killing him. 

There's an e-mail in Michael’s inbox from his hookup at Spencer's Gift, promising that his Mountain Dew Red will arrive by noon on November first. Michael reads that e-mail twenty times over. Every thirty minutes, he makes Jeremy take a shot. 

————

The one thing Michael doesn't try to do a lot of is talking to Jeremy. It's the loser shirt comment. Not that that would usually get to Michael, but weeks of Jeremy treating him like he's invisible have left Michael a little sensitive, he guesses. His loser shirts are just a part of a litany of problems. The computer in Michael’s best friend’s brain doesn't want them to talk anymore. The computer needs to come out before they can have a real conversation. 

(A real conversation that really should involve Jeremy groveling for forgiveness)

There are fire sirens somewhere outside. There have been on and off for a while now. Inside, everything is quiet. 

Jeremy is the one to break the silence. 

“I hate myself. I'm being a baby. I hate this.” 

“Maybe try not doing that,” Michael says. It's late, and he's tired. 

“Everybody has sex at parties. It's a good thing.” 

“There might be another word for what happened back there, if you think really hard about it.” 

Jeremy winces. 

“I didn't want to,” he says, small and fast, like he's not quite sure he wants Michael to hear. 

“Shh, Jeremy. I know.” 

Jeremy shuts his eyes tight. “I'm just… just…maybe… maybe drunk… and…” 

“Yeah.” Michael sighs. “That'd be the vodka. But it's going to be okay. Really. I promise. We’ll go to the mall tomorrow. You know how you needed to drink Mountain Dew to activate the Squip? Well, to turn it off, you’ve just gotta drink Mountain Dew Red. Real easy, right? Except it's been discontinued since the 1990s. Found that out from a Minecraft buddy of mine, after I got to asking around, and…” 

Jeremy is rocking slightly as Michael speaks. Michael’s friend’s brother went crazy trying to get his Squip out. 

“What if I don't want it out?” Jeremy asks. 

Michael blinks. He watches Jeremy and his rocking. “Trust me, you want it out.” 

Jeremy sits up for the first time all evening, hand latching onto Michael’s sleeve. “But what if I _don't_?” His eyes are red. Pitiful. “It's… it's not finished. I took it to achieve something, and I haven't, so…”

“You took it so you could date Christine,” Michael tells him. “And you haven't spoken a word to me since. I don't know if it's hurting you to keep you from talking to me, or if it's making me invisible somehow, or what. Honestly, I don't care. Am I really that worthless to you, that you’d rather have Christine than ever talk to me again?” 

“It's not just about Christine,” Jeremy argues. 

“Fine. What is it then?” Michael spits out. “All your new popular friends?” 

“You’re not getting it.” Jeremy’s eyes are close to brimming over. “It's giving me a chance to be worth something! This might be my only shot!” 

“It's changing you into somebody I don't want to know. It's changing you into someone that i regret ever knowing at all.” 

“I'm terrible.” 

“You’ve definitely been acting like it lately.” The bitterness in his own voice scares Michael a little bit. 

“Everything about me is…”

“Could you just fucking apologize?” Michael snaps. “Like, apologize for being a shitty friend, and then shut up. I think you owe me that much.” 

A beat. 

“I'm sorry for being a shitty friend.” 

Michael leans back against the headboard of his bed, and stares up at the ceiling, feeling like he's committed a murder. When the sound of Michael’s heart pounding in his ears dies down enough to let him hear Jeremy’s ragged breathing, Michael leans over to rub Jeremy’s back, but Jeremy shifts away as soon as they touch. 

“It's going to be okay,” Michael reiterates. What he really wants to do is apologize, but he's not the one who has done anything wrong. 

“You’re jealous I have something good, and you don't,” Jeremy mutters. “This is so like you.” 

Michael pretends not to hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Reviews very much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

The vodka burns going down. When this is over, Jeremy is never going to drink vodka again. 

Well, maybe he isn't. It all depends on whether or not he has to drink it again. 

There are a lot of things that Jeremy has to do, and has not to do. He's not allowed to slouch, and he's not allowed to put his hands in his pockets. Good thing he's lying down and doesn't have pockets right now. He's not allowed to think about sex. He's thought a lot about sex over the last few hours. He'll have to do a lot of sit-ups later. If those’ll make him stop thinking, Jeremy hopes the Squip will give him a million. 

Jeremy shouldn't be here. 

Michael hates Jeremy. 

Michael will never forgive Jeremy. Michael will keep him away from people he might still have a chance with. Jeremy has this amazing second chance, and so many people to share it with, as long as he changes everything about himself. If Michael stops him, then Jeremy will have nobody, which is what he deserves. The cool thing about Squips is that it doesn't matter what you deserve. They're built to elevate you. Jeremy might be a literal piece of shit, but he's going to move beyond that. 

He's at sea. He should lie still, stop rocking back and forth, but it's staving off some of the nausea from the drink, and distracting him from the phantom touch of someone else's skin, limbs no longer his to control, and acute physical sensation that he knew in his heart couldn't have just been the Squip, because he'd always been gross like that. His inherent grossness was nothing new. At least now he'd been given an acceptable outlet. 

The bed shifts, as Michael leans over to pour Jeremy another drink. Jeremy closes his eyes, and breathes through his nose. 

“Time to sit up and take your medicine,” Michael tells him. 

Coming here was a mistake. Jeremy should’ve stayed at the party. Gotten dressed, maybe found Christine. Trust him to make a stupid mistake the literal second the Squip goes off, and now he's dragged Michael into it too. 

“Only a few more hours,” Michael says. His voice is so dull, not all that angry, but not like him. “Jer, come on.” 

Jeremy ignores him. If Michael really wants him to drink, he can make him. 

 

“I bet you’re not feeling so great, huh?” Michael says. “…Not that you would be, anyway, I guess. Look, I'm going to give it another half hour, alright? If you start to feel like you’re being mind controlled by an evil tic-tac, let me know.” 

Jeremy continues to rock. 

“Even if I was gonna be jealous, seeing you like this would kill that real quick,” Michael continues. “You’ve gotta be smart about this, Jer. If these Squips were any good, which they aren't, think of all the possible applications for such mind blowingly advanced technology. They could be inside kings! Presidents! So why haven't we heard of them before, and why is one inside of you?” 

Is it so hard for Michael to believe that Jeremy got lucky, finally, after everything he's gone through? Maybe the Squip came to him because he needed it most. Maybe Rich’s Squip had seen him, and known this. He'd been the worst specimen of humanity that the world had to offer up to the technology gods, and also the most alone. Michael hadn't been enough to help Jeremy before, and he wouldn't be now. 

“Can I… can I have that shower, actually?” Jeremy asks. He tenses, expecting a shock for stuttering, but none comes, so he digs his fingernails into his palms as hard as he can. “And clothes.” 

“Thought they were loser clothes?” 

Is Michael going to harp on that until the day they die? 

“Never mind. Come on,” Michael says. “Let's clean you up and get you some loser clothes.” 

Jeremy nods. He wishes that Michael made sense like the Squip does. Then he wouldn't have to do this. He sits up, and watches Michael go through the pile of clothes on his floor. He sniffs two t-shirts, and chooses a third, which is presumably cleaner. Then he goes into his closet, and digs out a pair of drawstring pajama pants. 

“You coming?” Michael asks. 

Jeremy's chest is getting fluttery, his face hot. Michael puts the clothes in his arms. 

“I'm sorry for being a shitty friend.” Jeremy forces out. 

“That's gonna get better real soon,” Michael promises. 

Jeremy takes a deep breath. Time to go in for the kill. “It's just… you’re not exactly easy to be friends with.” 

Michael’s face darkens. “I could say the same about you.” 

(No surprise there. Jeremy knows he's difficult. He knows he's worthless.)

“Nobody likes you,” Jeremy goes on. “You don't even try to fit in. You think you’re better than everybody else because you eat sushi and listen to music on vinyl, but you’re not. You’re just a loser, with loser clothes, and his head jammed up his ass.”

Nothing, and then: “Is that what you really think?” 

Jeremy stands up, pushing past Michael for the door. The floor sways from all the vodka he's drank, but he tries not to show it. 

“Get out of my way, loser.” 

Jeremy shoves past Michael without looking back. He goes to the Mell kitchen, and makes himself a sandwich. His hands are numb, but he spreads peanut butter and jelly on bread. He eats it with a glass of coke. Then he takes the clothes Michael gave him, and goes upstairs for that shower. 

_Please come back on,_ Jeremy chants to himself under the spray of cold water. He's starting to get a headache, but the Squip still isn't talking. One of the few things he got out of flunking Driver’s Ed was that people tried to sober up by taking cold showers and eating, and that this is a Bad Idea. Jeremy can't be blamed for only having bad ideas without his Squip on to provide him with good ones. 

Even without the Squip, the sheer amount of voices in Jeremy’s head is a bit overwhelming. There's the one that wants the Squip to come back, and there's another that wants Michael to come back and stop him from leaving. Jeremy wishes Michael would come back, even if he screams and resists, even if Michael has to hurt him. It's okay for Michael to hurt him right now, if it'll keep him from leaving. 

Jeremy takes the longest, coldest shower that he can, waiting for his Squip to come back on, or for Michael to get him. Then, when neither happens, he shuts off the water, and gets dressed. He's pulling on the pajama pants, when he blinks, and Keanu Reeves is standing in front of him, placid and stern. 

_Would it have killed you to give me some kind of warning?_ Jeremy thinks at him. 

**My absence, although not ideal, was necessary.**

_Necessary! I fucked everything up. Michael’s going to hate me forever now._

**One moment while I review the data from last night.** The Squip flickers, and Jeremy is unable to keep himself from reaching out for it. A shock tingles up through his spine, and he straightens. 

**You have performed better than anticipated.**

_Then why’d you have to shock me?_

**It was necessary to get your attention. I do not have a corporeal form, and you are currently quite unsteady. You were about to fall through me.**

Jeremy doesn't have an answer for that. He wants to go to sleep. 

**Your mind’s current processing speed is not ideal. You should be home in bed.**

The Squip is right. Jeremy is exhausted. Still, he shuffles forward. It's time to go home now. 

There are voices in Jeremy’s head. One of them wants Michael. The other wanted the Squip, and is laughing with relief now. 

There's a third that just wants out. That voice wants to be Jeremy again. That voice knows that the road back to where he started can't be led by Michael, or by the Squip. Jeremy is gonna have to do it himself. 

That voice is the quietest one of all. 

 

**~~Sinister Techno Music~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Production Notes: 
> 
> \- I'm sorry.   
> \- Please Review.   
> \- This is the end of the story, but I do think that Michael still makes his entrance at the play and helps Jeremy get his Squip out. The important thing is that by then Jeremy has decided on his own to get it out. He's ready. In this story, he still isn't.   
> \- Jeremy's Squip is off for most of this fic, but the conditioning her received from it remains. He's not doing well.


End file.
